


Blame The Moon

by Erinya



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Power Dynamics, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-08
Updated: 2006-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinya/pseuds/Erinya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Elizabeth observe May Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame The Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hereswith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereswith/gifts).



> Request fic, prompt: J/E, hands, and lightning. Admittedly there are a lot more hands here than lightning. Title taken from a lovely song by Beth Hart. Many thanks to Geekmama for the beta.

The moon hangs heavy-full above the _Black Pearl_ , so low and huge it would almost seem to spear itself upon the ship's topgallant mast, and the silver-lit sea shivers under a brisk spring wind. Elizabeth lingers on deck, although it is not her watch; the wind carries some electricity or enchantment of which she's breathed too much, and she trembles like the sea and like the ship beneath her feet, feeling the tide's pull in her blood.

It's May Eve, she recalls, or near enough. In England still, country folk light the bale fires on nights like these, Christendom or no, and in Jamaica she would hear the islanders' urgent drums far off, the eerie songs of their _houngan_ priests. She glances aft to the helm, and wonders if Jack Sparrow feels it too, the ancient fire, the heartbeat drum, the _frisson_ of wind like a lover's touch in his hair and on his skin.

Accordingly, she is waiting in the _Pearl_ 's Great Cabin when her Captain finishes his watch. She has discarded her sailor's clothes and wrapped herself only in a robe of red silk, but has left the candles unlit in their sconces, preferring the pale glow of reflected moonlight. He looks at her curiously as he shuts the door.

"Need something, Lizzie?"

"Yes," she says simply, and rises, sloughing off the robe; it pools around her feet, bright as flame or blood. She steps out of it and towards him, slipping her hands under the lapels of his coat to push it from his shoulders, tucking one hand around his neck to pull his mouth hard against hers. He responds in kind, though he makes a startled noise when she takes hold of his sash to draw him with her towards the bed, and again when she pushes him down onto it without ceremony, straddling him. He reaches to touch her, and she surprises them both by grasping his wrists firmly and pushing them down to the mattress, where he allows her to pin him, though he could easily resist her.

"Let me, Jack," she says, and hears her own voice catch, rough with wanting, the ragged drumbeat of her heart in her ears and of his against her palms.

His brows wing upwards quizzically, but his lips curve, and he says, "So that's how it is, eh?" And then falls silent when she leans down from the bed to untangle the sash from the heap of clothing they have so recently abandoned. "And what might you be planning to do with that, lass?"

Above him again, she bends to claim his mouth. "Do you trust me?"

Jack's eyes are dark, fathomless, and his breath hitches, a laugh or a gasp. "Not entirely." But he makes no more protest as she gently forces his arms over his head and binds his wrists with the sash, first together and then to the central bar of the iron headboard, only inhaling sharply when she draws the knots tight.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Only a little," he says, but his tone is teasing. His fingers curl, and he tests the bonds, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing briefly, then relaxing. "Well tied, love. I had an inkling you'd be a fast learner," and from the flash of his grin she knows he is not referring merely to knot-craft.

"I have the advantage of a good teacher," she replies, with similar double-meaning, and sits up, moving back a little to admire her handiwork, and her captive laid out naked before her. He is golden, beautiful, lean gleaming muscle, skin smooth except where it is marbled by scars, his hair dark and tangled against the pillow and dark elsewhere as well. He watches her watch him, expression amused now; although when she meets his eyes something leaps in them, and she feels an answering shock run through her core, as if he's touched her there.

"I can't say I recall teaching you this particular game," he says dryly. "What inspired you, if I may ask?"

Elizabeth runs her fingers down the inside of his left forearm, where those curious pale scars mark him like the twisted path of lightning. He hasn't told her what arcane torment might leave such tracks; she hasn't yet found the courage to ask, and not because she fears his wrath. Pressing her lips to the pulse beneath them, she seeks to exorcise whatever memory of past pain sleeps beneath his skin.

"Your hands distract me," she answers, after a moment, realizing that it is the truth. "There are things I mean to do, when we're together, but then you touch me, and I forget...everything."

"My loss, it would appear," he says huskily. "What things are these, then, that you mean to do?"

"This," she says, letting her mouth roam to the firm curve of his shoulder and up to the hollow of his throat, feels his Adam's apple slide against her cheek as he swallows. "And this." She sweeps her tongue along the underside of his jaw-line as he drops his head back, a growl rising in his chest like far-off thunder. He tastes of the sea, salt-tang and musk. Remembering a lesson he _has_ taught her, she scrapes her teeth over the sensitive skin below his earlobe, and is rewarded by his shudder beneath her, and a muffled curse; he's straining a little now against his bonds.

"Elizabeth," he says, whether in prayer or praise she cannot tell.

"Shh," and she lifts her head enough to kiss his parted lips, caressing him and swallowing the sounds he makes, learning him with hands and mouth and heart.

Jack does not speak again, until she trails slow kisses down his body and pauses to lick at the line of muscle that separates abdomen from hip, which leaps against her tongue. "Bloody hell, Lizzie," he says tightly. "Must you take such a time about it--?" But his petulance becomes a wordless moan as she takes his hard length in hand, and then a gasp when she drops her mouth to him; his head falls back, his back arching, hands clenching and unclenching. The banked fire low in her belly flares at the sight of him, need calling to need; to have him under her power thus is utterly intoxicating. She takes him to the brink and leaves him there, rising over him and waiting until he opens his eyes and looks at her.

"Lizzie... _God_..." And when she does not move, he says, "Would you have me beg? Is that it?"

She shakes her head. "Say you're mine."

"You already know, love."

"I want to hear you say it."

Jack sighs, but he holds her gaze, and his voice is night and velvet. "Then I'm yours indeed, m'lady. Yours to plunder, yours to take. At your mercy, as always. And I very much hope you intend to show some... _Ah_ ," as she sinks onto him, taking him deep inside, his hips bucking upwards under her. Pausing there, she reaches up to tug at the knots that bind him; for she wants those long-fingered, graceful hands on her, suddenly and desperately. He's pulled the knots tighter by twisting against them, and she swears softly, leaning over him, her breast brushing his cheek; he turns his head to kiss it, capturing her nipple with lips and teeth, a sharp pleasure that runs straight through her to where their bodies join.

"Stop it," Elizabeth says breathlessly; but he only chuckles, a vibrating rumble that she feels as much as hears.

"Don't need my hands to distract you, do I?" And he circles his hips against hers in a practiced motion, so that she cannot stop the whimper that rises in her throat.

"Don't you want me to untie you?" she counters, when she can speak again.

"Mmm," an indeterminate noise; his tongue slides along her ribcage under her breast, where he knows her skin is especially sensitive. "I'll have my revenge for this, you know," he says after a little while, although he already is; and must be aware of it, thanks to the shiver she cannot suppress. "All in good time, darlin'."

"Oh, indeed," she says, with a secret smile, as the last knot finally gives way to her determined struggle. "Making promises now, Jack Sparrow?" and she takes his hands, placing them on her. He runs them down her sides to close lightly on her hips, and she sees the wicked smile in his eyes too late; a moment later he has flipped her onto her back, capturing both her wrists easily with one hand, his grip almost but not quite tight enough to bruise her.

"My turn," he says, still very much inside her, and grins his rogue's grin; his other hand dances lightly over her breasts, her hips, and further down between their bodies. "Surely you didn't think you were the only one inspired by the moon and May Eve."

"So you felt it too." Elizabeth assembles the words with difficulty, hindered by the things that he is doing with his hand, the sensation of him filling her, the tide swelling and roaring in her veins.

"Aye," he says. "There's something wild on the wind tonight. Holy madness and old magic. 'Tis a call that men can't help but answer." He adds, with a wry quirk of his lips, "Nor women, as you have so skillfully demonstrated."

She laughs, then gasps as he begins to move, his thrusts long and slow and deep at first, then faster as she demands it of him. He has brought her very near to release already, and soon she surges up against him, crying out wordlessly; he looses her wrists and gathers her up in his arms, his eyes never straying from hers except at the last, when he buries his face in her neck, muttering her name as he shudders into her. She tangles her fingers in his hair and strokes his slender shoulders while his breathing slows, finding the ridges of other old scars there, the cruel signature of the lash, and marvels at him as she sometimes does; at the life he has lived and the chance or fate that led it to intersect and mingle with her own.

After a moment or two he rolls a little to the side, so that his whole weight no longer anchors her, and lays his head on her breast with a contented humming noise. Together they watch the moonlight creep palely down the bulkhead and along the boards of the cabin floor to finally spill over their entwined bodies as their _Pearl_ whispers and creaks around them in that fey wind.

"Y'know," Jack murmurs, "time was the moon put me in mind of bones and traitors."

She interlaces her fingers with his restless ones. "Because of the curse?"

"Aye. But not only that." He does not speak again for some time, and she begins to think he has fallen asleep. Then he says quietly, "The night of the mutiny, the night they came for me—here, in this cabin--the moon was full. I remember because I could see their faces, every one of them." His shoulders move slightly, shaking off the memory, and the _Black Pearl_ shivers around them as if she, too, remembers. "Not a one of them would look at me."

"Oh, Jack," she says, distressed, and cannot think of what else to say. He's never spoken of that time to her before.

"It's all right," he says, and turns to kiss her collarbone. "You've given me prettier things to think about in moonlight, love. Like these," cupping her breasts, "and this," and his hands stray lower, "and this," and he raises his head to capture her mouth with his.

And the summoning of ghosts and nightmares is not the fault for which they blame the moon; though when it sinks at last into the sea with dawn's blue light in its wake, neither has yet found sleep.


End file.
